Damage Control

“Because we’re going to borrow the plane in the dark,” Jonathan said.

“We’re never getting out of here alive, are we?” Tristan asked.

“Of course we are,” Jonathan said. “Not a doubt in my mind.”

“Bullshit,” Tristan said. “You can’t be sure of that.”

Jonathan and Boxers exchanged glances. “Sure we can,” the Big Guy said. “I’ve turned down opportunities to die in way better places than this shit hole.”

Scorpion improved on it. “We’re getting out of here because that’s the only option that Big Guy and I will accept.”

Tristan rolled his eyes.

Jonathan sighed. “Look, I know that that sounds like empty talk, but I’m going to share a lesson with you. I’ve seen more tough days than most people, and I can tell you that commitment is everything. If you’re willing to accept failure as an option, then failure is the only possible outcome.”

The kid still wasn’t buying.

“Okay,” Jonathan said. “What’s your sport in high school?”

Tristan laughed. “Sport? I’m on the debate team.” Jonathan beamed. “I was on the debate team, too. Have you ever gotten yourself fired up enough to win a debate that you had no right winning because the other team was way better than you?”

Tristan scowled. “Sure, I guess so.”

“Of course you have,” Jonathan said. “It happens that way with everyone, and it happens that way with everything. If you project success, you cannot fail.”

“But the police are following us,” Tristan said. “They’re as good with guns as we are.”

Boxers laughed. “Um, no they’re not.”

“No one says there has to be shooting,” Scorpion said. “And even if it comes to that, no one says that everyone has to shoot. If you can’t bring yourself to pull the trigger, then you can reload spent mags. It’s all about being a team.”

As Tristan listened, something stirred in his chest. From anyone else, this would have seemed like streaming bullshit, but Tristan could tell that Scorpion was spouting what he believed to be undeniable fact. And that fact alone made it impressive.

“We need you to be a solid member of the team, Tristan.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Trevor Munro tired of waiting for an adequate break in oncoming traffic. His Porsche 911 Carrera had a big enough engine to cut it short and still survive. He gunned it and pulled into the undersized parking lot of the diminutive Vienna Branch of the Fairfax County Public Library, cutting across two lanes of oncoming traffic and eliciting a symphony of blaring horns.

With no parking slots available, he just idled in the lot, waiting for Jerry Sjogren to make his stealthy entrance. It didn’t take long. The big Bostonian emerged through the double glass front doors just like any other patron, strolled to the passenger side, and pulled the door open. He stared at the space for a few seconds before he began the process of folding his enormous frame into the low-slung seats.

“Holy shit, Trev,” he said as he pulled his legs inside and struggled to get the door closed. “I already climbed out of a womb once. Is your dick really so small that you need to drive a car like this?”

Munro gunned the engine mostly for the noise of it, and circled around the parking lot to head back out on Maple Avenue, heading north. “You called this meeting, Sjogren,” he said.

“And you ought to be saying a prayer of thanks that I did,” Sjogren said. “You got yourself what we New Englanders call a wicked problem.”

Trevor forced himself to keep his eyes on the road. If he didn’t encourage these kinds of games, maybe they would stop, and the oaf would simply get to the point. Meanwhile, the Porsche’s horsepower would remain wasted as he surged from traffic light to traffic light, flanked by one strip mall after another.

“I got a buddy in the U.S. attorney’s office who keeps me in the loop on important stuff. He tells me that they’re on the edge of bringing in your butt buddy, Felix Hernandez. I don’t know how you do that from another country, but he’s never given me bad four-one-one.”

Munro waited for the rest.

“C’mon, Trev, humor me. I got so little in my life. This is where you’re supposed to say, ‘How does this affect me?’ ”

And thus the game perpetuated. “Gee, Mr. Sjogren, how does this affect you?”

Sjogren erupted in laughter. “Not me-you. How does this affect you. I was doing, like a direct quote for you. And remember that my name is Abrams for this op.” Sjogren craned his neck to see Munro’s face, and then slapped him on the arm. “C’mon, Trev. Engage with me. We’re havin’ fun here.”

“You’re having fun,” Munro said. He knew he was rising to the bait, but he wanted this meeting to end. “You’re having it at my expense, and I desperately want you to get on with it.”

“Priggish little shit, aren’t you?” Sjogren mocked. “All right, fine. If they nail him, I figure that you’ll be the first one he throws under the bus. That’s what I’d do if I was him. Then I’d pull your skinny ass out and throw it under again. I’ve checked you out, Trev. You got no friends anywhere. That’s hard to do. Shit, I’m an asshole, and even I have friends.” He paused for a reaction.

“No freakin’ fun at all,” Sjogren said. “Now ask me what they’ve got on Hernandez.”

Munro looked across the console. He hoped that his contempt for the man was plainly evident. “Really?” he said.

“Do you want to know or don’t you?”

A deep sigh. “Okay, Mr. Abrams, what do they have on Hernandez?”

“An informant.” He fired the answer like a weapon, and it hit its mark. “There’s somebody inside his organization that’s funneling information back to the U.S. attorney’s office. The FBI’s doin’ a little happy dance over it.”

Munro felt his face going pale, and he let off the accelerator a bit. This could be the nightmare of nightmares. Hernandez knew way too much about everything. The drug lord had thoroughly insulated himself from the Mexican authorities, but there were still elements within the Mexican government that wanted democracy to return. Those elements had been working with the American State Department for years trying to find a workable leverage point. And, of course, wherever State goes, the Justice Department isn’t very far behind. It would be just like those agencies to negotiate leniency for a Mexican in favor of the hard line against a career patriot like Munro.

“You don’t look so good, Trev,” Sjogren said. “You maybe need to pull over or something? I’d hate to test the air bags on your midlife crisis car.”

“Go to hell, Sjogren.”

“It’s Abrams.”

“Fuck you.”

Sjogren laughed again, a hearty thing that shook his whole frame. “There you go, Trev! That’s what I’ve been mining for all this time. I really can get you to cuss! I’m proud of you.”

Munro couldn’t even process the mockery. This was beyond a crisis. This was a disaster of incalculable proportions. “We have to stop it,” he said.

“Yeah, well, good luck with that. What do you have in mind?”

Munro’s mind swam in options. “How much would it cost for you to kill him?”

Sjogren’s jaw dropped. “Who, Felix Hernandez? You don’t have that much money. They don’t print that much money. He’s got more security around him than the freakin’ president of the United States.”

Munro felt the panic building in his gut. He tried to press it down, but this was too big to suppress. “But he has to be stopped. If what you say is true-”

“Back up a second,” Sjogren said. “You’re not hearing what I’m telling you. He’s got an informant in his inner